Poems (Henderson)/An Unwritten Poem
AN UNWRITTEN POEM.
Windy March morn made dark,
By the inky blackness of sky,
Winds groaning and sighing in pain,
Blowing bare branches awry.
By the inky blackness of sky,
Winds groaning and sighing in pain,
Blowing bare branches awry.
A hollow, all fringed with the hazels,
Brown growths, and twining between,
The bitter-sweet's scarlet aglowing,
Bereft of its shading of green.
Brown growths, and twining between,
The bitter-sweet's scarlet aglowing,
Bereft of its shading of green.
The dry grass crackles and bends,
Neath a footstep nimble and light,
Two brown eyes are ashine,
Two crimson cheeks glowing and bright.
Neath a footstep nimble and light,
Two brown eyes are ashine,
Two crimson cheeks glowing and bright.
Wistfully pausing, she lingers,
At foot of the leafless old beech,
The hazel's stir, and his step,
She hastens in rapture to greet.
At foot of the leafless old beech,
The hazel's stir, and his step,
She hastens in rapture to greet.
Inky black sky, thou art drear,
And winds, thou art cruel and cold,
What do they care for your sighing,
Or the frost down under the mold.
And winds, thou art cruel and cold,
What do they care for your sighing,
Or the frost down under the mold.
In their hearts throbs a mystical rhyme,
A song that shall never grow old,
That is new while the cycles of Time,
The century's pages unfold.
A song that shall never grow old,
That is new while the cycles of Time,
The century's pages unfold.
Blow winds, fall rains, and flow over,
The rivers that on to the sea,
Are bearing their burden of blessing,
For the thirsting of bright summer days.
The rivers that on to the sea,
Are bearing their burden of blessing,
For the thirsting of bright summer days.
Oh! wonderful heart of creation,
Thy depths ever tremble and thrill,
With the far-off music of ages,
O'er thy love-harp echoing still.
Thy depths ever tremble and thrill,
With the far-off music of ages,
O'er thy love-harp echoing still.
Bare brown hollow, thou holdest,
A poem, with cadence more sweet,
Than the pen of the rhymer may trace,
A picture more tender and sweet.
A poem, with cadence more sweet,
Than the pen of the rhymer may trace,
A picture more tender and sweet.
Than the pencil may shape in the hand,
Of the artistic dreamer of Thought,
Thou hast jewels more precious and rare,
Than ever from Indies were brought.
Of the artistic dreamer of Thought,
Thou hast jewels more precious and rare,
Than ever from Indies were brought.
Beautiful eyes, shine on,
Beautiful lips, thy troth,
Repeat, who gave thee blessing of Love,
Speaks, and bids thee rejoice.
Beautiful lips, thy troth,
Repeat, who gave thee blessing of Love,
Speaks, and bids thee rejoice.